


Happy Frakkin New Year

by AuthorToBeNamedLater



Series: Keeping Up With The Raptors [20]
Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Sports, Calgary Flames, Flirting, Geeks, Geeky, Gen, Hockey, Minor Injuries, New Year's Eve, New Years, Raptors, Seattle, Snowed In, Sports, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorToBeNamedLater/pseuds/AuthorToBeNamedLater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Raptors get stuck in Calgary for New Year's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Frakkin New Year

**Author's Note:**

> It's been awhile but I have not forgotten my boys! The second half of their inaugural season should go a little faster since I already have a lot of that written in my head. Enjoy!
> 
> The founder of the Wawa gas station chain really is from Wawa ON. I know this because I have been to Wawa ON.
> 
> Obviously, this story takes place between the second to last and last scenes of "A Modest Proposal."
> 
> The conversation contained herein does not represent AuthorToBeNamedLater's opinion of the Washington Capitals or Alexander Ovechkin.

One bad thing about being a sportscaster was spending holidays away from home. Don Obenshain had gotten used to it in his days as a player, but that didn't mean he enjoyed spending New Year's Eve 2012 in cold, dark Calgary trying to add some color to a fairly lifeless hockey game. All things considered he'd much rather be sitting on his couch, watching the scene in Times Square, ready to sip champagne and kiss his wife at midnight. Well, 9:00pm seeing as Seattle was in Pacific Time. As far as Don was concerned that meant he got two kisses.

But Don was here, in the broadcast booth high above the ice at Scotiabank Saddledome as the second period wound to a close with the Raptors and Flames in a 0-0 tie. Neither team had yet mustered 10 shots on goal in 36 hockey minutes.

“D-to-D to Ronningen,” Don's broadcast partner Jake Obenshain said while, down on the ice, Andor Ronningen shuttled a Calgary clear back to the offensive zone. “Cross-ice to Bozkurt, he shoots—oh! He hit Stefansson!”

“Oh, my goodness,” Don gasped. Kris Stefansson was trying to get up, holding a hand over his left eye.

“Here comes Sam Richardson,” Jake said. The Raptors' head trainer had emerged from the bench and was making her way over to Stefansson, now standing with some assistance from his teammates.

Doc and Ugur Bozkurt were guiding Kris toward the tunnel, where Doc took over and took him to the dressing room. Will LaJeunesse sent Ryan Nederlander over the boards as the players prepared to resume.

“Looks like Ryan Nederlander's gonna double shift for Stefansson,” Jake said. “Play will resume after this break, and we will of course give updates on Kris Stefansson as we get them.”

The broadcast went to commercial and both broadcasters let out long sighs.

"Happy New Year," Don said flatly.

"Uh-huh," Jake agreed.

.

.

.

Kristofer Stefansson lay on his back on a table in the trainers' room with an ice pack over his left eye. Boz's friendly fire had left him with quite the black eye, but as of now no concussion symptoms.

“Hey, Kris.” It was Derrick, the assistant trainer. “Let's see it.”

Kris removed the pack. Derrick nodded solemnly as he took in the damage. “Yeah. That's ugly.”

“You're some help,” Kris said, replacing the ice pack.

“Let's get that off there for a few minutes,” Derrick said.

Coach LaJeunesse peered over Derrick's shoulder. “How you doing in there, Kris?”

“Happy fuckin' New Year,” Kris grumped.

Derrick turned looked at LaJeunesse with a smile. “He's great.”

.

.

.

“Can we get out of here yet?” Ricky Traynor all but whined. The Raptors had just played their third game in as many nights, all on the road. Ricky had taken a brutal hit (but then, most hits were brutal when you were only 5' 8” and weighed 165 pounds soaking wet) against Winnipeg in the second game and his hip still hurt.

“Patience, my young apprentice,” Tim Keller admonished.

The tired Raptors had talked to the media, showered, changed, packed up their gear, and now just wanted to get back to Seattle for their last four-day break of the season. And the moment Coach LaJeunesse entered the room, Ricky knew their best-laid plans had hit a snag.

“OK, guys,” Coach said tiredly. “We're not going home tonight.”

A disappointed groan resounded from the team. “What's going on?” Hannu Numminen asked.

“Remember that snowstorm we all said wasn't going to hit? Well, it has. Sea-Tac's completely shut down.”

“A snowstorm,” Tim Keller said.

“In Seattle?!” Hank Sheridan exclaimed.

Coach nodded. “Yes and yes. We're not getting out of here until at least tomorrow morning.”

“So what are we gonna do?” Ricky asked.

“Brad's extended our stay for tonight,” Coach said. “Until we can leave, try to enjoy your New Year's.”

Coach left, leaving the team to contemplate their newfound predicament.

“Is there at least somewhere we can get some food?” Ugur Bozkurt piped up after a few moments. “I'm starving.”

“In Calgary on New Year's Eve? I'm sure there's something.” Josh Bernier whipped out his phone and began Googling.

.

.

.

Derrick Boyle, assistant athletic trainer for the Seattle Raptors, had a knack for smoothing over any heated situation. His gentle, relaxed countenance, easy smile, and kind blue eyes despite his Dominican heritage could diffuse tension in an instant. This often came in handy when dealing with injured professional athletes, and his high-strung boss.

“Are you kidding me?!”

Derrick regarded his boss with exasperated sympathy. Doc had had a busy road trip. Kris' black eye was just the icing on the cake. Hank and Bernie had both cut their hands in fights in the previous game, and Simon Moreau was day-to-day with a twisted ankle he'd gotten in warm-ups—warm-ups, of all things—on the first game of the trip. Doc was within her rights to be tired and honestly, Derrick was fairly burned out too.

“No, Boss. I'm not kidding you.”

“You mean after I spend the past two hours dealing with Big Baby back here--”

“Fuck you too!” Kris hollered. Derrick stifled a laugh.

“--I'm stuck in Calgary for New Year's?”

“We all know you didn't have any plans,” Derrick pointed out. When Doc glared at him, he added. “Aw, come on, Boss. There's worse places to be stuck.”

Doc shook her head and pushed past Derrick to the dressing room.

Derrick turned to Kris. “You feel up to getting out of here? Cause I think they're about to kick us out.”

.

.

.

“Happy frakkin' New Year.”

Mikey Palmer, just about to leave the dressing room, felt his nerd ears perk up at the made-up expletive. “What did you just say?”

Doc, halfway through her bustle across the room, stopped. Obviously she'd thought she was alone. “What?”

“What did you just say?”

Doc looked at him with the uncomprehending stare of someone running on too little sleep and too much caffeine.

Mikey took a couple of steps forward. “You just said 'frak.'”

“So what if I did?”

Mikey pointed a finger at Doc and gave her a sly smile. “You're a BSG fan.”

“ _Battlestar Galactica_? I've seen it.”

“Uh-uh.” Mikey shook his head. “You don't drop a 'frak' unless you're a bona fide fan.”

“OK, I'm a fan,” Doc said tonelessly. “What do you expect? There were five men in my house. Not a lot of _My Little Pony_ going on.”

Mikey would never peg Doc for a _My Little Pony_ fan, but thought better before he said it.

“Are you going anywhere?” Mikey asked.

“Back to the hotel.”

“Party animal,” Mikey said with a little smile.

“See you whenever we get out of here,” Doc said, and left the room.

.

.

.

“ _So when will you be home?”_

“Sometime tomorrow afternoon,” Stanislav Cibulka said into his phone. “Are you sure you're OK, Amy?"

“ _Stan,”_ Amy said firmly. _“I am not made of glass.”_

“I know you're not,” Stan said, leaning against the pale yellow wallpaper in the hotel lobby. “Did you feel the baby move today?”

“ _Of course I did,”_ Stan could hear the smile in his wife's voice. Their first child was due in March. _“Are you guys doing anything fun tonight?”_

“Some of the guys went out,” Stan reported. “The rest of us are in the lobby or already asleep. Do you still have power?”

“ _Oddly enough, yes.”_

“Did you watch the ball drop?” Amy loved watching the New Year's broadcast from New York, though Stanislav thought there was no point seeing as the ball dropped well before midnight in Seattle.

“ _Of course I did.”_ Amy laughed. “ _I miss you, honey. Don't get into any trouble there on the mean streets of Calgary.”_

“I miss you too,” Stan said. “Take care of Eliska/Patrik.” The Cibulkas had finally decided on boy and girl names for their baby, ones that paid tribute to her father's Czech heritage and were still pronounceable by native English-speakers. They'd taken to calling their child by both names.

“ _I will. See you tomorrow.”_

“See you then.” Stan hit the “End” button and joined his teammates in the lobby.

“It's really coming down, huh?” Hank was saying into his phone. “You guys having a good time?”

Stan sat on the couch beside his team captain. He could hear the excited jabbering of a young child through Hank's phone.

“You had a snowball fight?...No, I haven't talked to Ashley yet...OK. I love you too, Timmy.”

Stanislav began idly playing with his phone, wondering if in 15 years Amy would be passing her phone around the house so all of their children could talk to him while he was on a road trip.

.

.

.

“I thought you were going to sleep.”

Samantha Richardson looked to her right as she sat down on the overstuffed leather couch in the hotel lobby. “I said I was going back to the hotel,” she clarified. Truth be told, the Seattle Raptors' head athletic trainer would rather be in bed, but the team's sideline reporter had wheedled her into joining the makeshift New Year's party in the lobby. Various Raptors, along with Obie, Jake, and Kendra Willis, the sideline reporter in question, were sitting around with pizza, beer, playing cards, and watching highlights of tonight's NHL action on TSN. With Calgary being in Mountain Time, the New Year's festivities in Times Square had long passed.

Mikey Palmer nodded in concession and handed Doc a bottle of Moulson from one of the six-packs Pete Lochner had picked up.

“No, thanks,” Doc declined.

“Not a beer drinker?”

“Not Moulson.” Doc regretted the words as soon as she'd spoken them.

Mikey set the beer on the table with a _thunk_ and regarded her like she'd grown another head. “Up north them's fighting words.”

“Sorry.”

“So what kind of beer _do_ you like?”

“Sam Adams,” Doc answered.

Mikey sniffed. “Boston.”

“Yup.”

After a few seconds of silence, Doc sighed and held out her hand. “Give me the Moulson.”

Mikey handed the bottle over. “Desperate women...”

Doc twisted off the cap and took a swig. Far from optimal, but it would do the trick after the road trip she'd just had.

“How's Kris?”

Doc put the beer on the table. “He's fine. Bruised, but he'll be fine.” She looked up at the TV. Some music group was performing.

“So how did you become a trainer?”

Doc looked at Mikey. “Huh?”

“How'd you become a trainer?” Mikey repeated. “What made the girl from Boston--”

“Brookline,” Doc corrected automatically.

“--Brookline decide she wanted to follow hockey players around and patch up their boo-boos?”

Doc laughed. It was an interesting, but essentially accurate description of her job. “Well, I have four brothers,” she said. “The two younger ones both played hockey, so every winter as soon as the pond up the street froze they'd pack up their gear and hike down there and play one-on-one until Dad called us back. I'd always tag along. I was way too small to play with them of course, so I'd just sit in the snow with hot chocolate and watch.

“One day Kenny—the youngest one—got a puck to the chin. He wasn't hurt too bad, but I ran back to the house, got the first aid kit, and put a Band-Aid on it. Then I got to college and thought I wanted to be a doctor, but I just liked sports medicine too much.” Doc shrugged. “So what about you? How'd you become a hockey player?”

“What else was a boy from Wawa, Ontario to do?” Mikey asked.

“Wawa? Like the gas station?”

“Yeah, actually. Their founder was from there.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup.” Mikey nodded. “Same old story, you know...I played when I was a kid, got into the juniors system when I was 15, then the Caps drafted me and I spent a few years in their system, then I made it to the NHL and now I'm here.”

“Is it as bad as they say?” Doc picked up her Moulson. It tasted no better on the second sip. “The juniors system?”

Mikey's normally cheerful expression transformed into a tight frown. Doc wondered if she might have touched a nerve. “Sometimes,” the winger answered after a minute.

“Did you really ask to be traded from Washington?” Doc asked, trying to change the subject as fast as possible.

“It wasn't that simple, but yeah,” Mikey said. “They didn't want me around anymore and I wasn't too fond of them.”

Doc's eyebrows rose. Most players were pretty diplomatic, even in private, when discussing their former teams. The NHL was a small world and word traveled like wildfire.

“They were already shopping me around when I asked for the trade,” Mikey said. “It wasn't all bad, but when you switch head coaches every couple years there's not a lot of stability. Guys pretty much stopped listening to coaches after awhile because we knew they wouldn't be around long.”

“So why didn't they like you?” Doc asked. Mikey could be annoying, but he was a good player and teammate and didn't have a malicious bone in his body.

“There can only be one big personality in the room and they weren't going to get rid of Ovi,” Mikey said bluntly. “Ovi” was the Washington Capitals' captain Alexander Ovechkin. 

Doc nodded. “OK.”

A few more minutes passed and Doc found herself struggling to keep her eyes open. Maybe it was just that this was the first time she'd been able to rest in four days, maybe it was the Moulson.

“Hey, hey, It's midnight!” Boz called from the corner. “Happy 2013, everyone!”

“Happy New Year!” Keller raised a bottle, and the rest of the Raptors followed suit.

“Yay,” Doc cheered apathetically. She took a last swig of the offensive Moulson and stood. “Now I _am_ going to bed.” She stood and started to leave the lobby.

“Hey, Doc,” Mikey said.

Doc turned around. “Yeah?”

“Happy frakkin' New Year,” Doc said with a smile.

.

.

.

By the time the Raptors had clearance to take off—almost noon on New Year's Day—LaJeunesse was starting to feel like a kindergarten teacher. None of his players were happy. The younger guys who hadn't been down this road were ready to bounce off the walls, and the older ones who had just wanted to get home to their families.

Right now LaJeunesse was awfully glad he didn't have a family to worry about while he was stranded in Alberta shepherding a bunch of adult men acting like kids.

When the team's charter flight received clearance to land LaJeunesse let out a sigh of relief while the rest of the plane applauded.

“Wow!” Mark Shearer exclaimed from a few rows back. “It really snowed!”

LaJeunesse glanced out the window. Mark was right. All of Seattle was covered in a white blanket.

“How about that,” Hank marveled. “I haven't seen snow like this in 20 years here.”

It didn't take long for the team to deplane, though it felt like forever since all LaJeunesse wanted was a cup of coffee and his couch. But they still had to get their luggage, and then he had to deal with all the idiots on the road. Being from upstate New York, LaJeunesse was more than adept at driving in inclement conditions; it was everyone else he had to worry about.

An ear-splitting scream pulled LaJeunesse out of his thoughts. It was Doc, cringing while snow fell off her jacket and Mikey stood behind her with a shit-eating grin. He'd obviously just stuffed snow down her neck.

“Mikey!” The trainer shrieked.

“You've got a good set of lungs, you know that?” Mikey called.

Doc began shuffling toward her car. “Next time you need a rub down I'm telling Evan to put the lotion in the fridge!” Evan Reist was the Raptors' massage therapist.

LaJeunesse shook his head and tugged open the door to his Chevy Tahoe.

The season was half done, and William LaJeunesse planned to enjoy every second of rest he could before the second half began.


End file.
